


The Host

by Argyle



Series: A Gentleman Vampire’s Dossier [2]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Corruption Arc, M/M, Monsters in love, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vampire Sex, Victorian England
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26345995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: In which Johnny goes home and Dracula gets acclimated.A collection of vignettes relating to the continued preternatural education of Jonathan Harker, Englishman, lawyer, and bride of Dracula.
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Series: A Gentleman Vampire’s Dossier [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899502
Comments: 36
Kudos: 144





	1. Demeter

Of the six passengers and twelve crewmen who first boarded the _Demeter_ at Varna, only Captain Sokolov now remains.

Night by night, one by one, Dracula and Jonathan have taken the others. Drunk their lives down to the dregs like the finest wine...

But for Adisa, who when cornered one evening managed to tackle Jonathan to the deck. His hands gripped round Jonathan's throat before Jonathan swung them both about. They sparred for several long moments, but the man's strength was no match for a vampire's. Jonathan's fangs extended—

"Damn you! I knew it was you!" Adisa spat in Jonathan's face before managing to cast himself overboard, unwilling to be conquered after the long weeks of horror and fear and paranoia over the mounting disappearances. This, of all things, shocked Jonathan. The anger in the man's eyes. The determination. The will to fight.

And he immediately worried that Dracula would punish him for his failure.

But Dracula delightedly described his own lethal encounter with Lord Ruthven, revealing that Adisa had not in fact been Ruthven's servant, but his longtime lover. He recounted the hell they'd gone through to be together, and Jonathan at once _understood_ —and had the grace to mourn his loss.

So too Dracula took pity on Jonathan, pressing close to whisper, "The boy, Piotr, is likewise not who he claims to be. Consider taking a bit more care with him."

And Jonathan did.

But Captain Sokolov?

Upon finding him hidden away in the hold of the ship attempting to set a barrel of gunpowder alight, Jonathan is far from gentle as he grabs him by the collar, drags him to the deck, and drops him at Dracula's feet.

"Look alive, Captain. Your services are still required."

"I won't help you. You've cursed this ship!" Sokolov barks. "I refuse to bring us into Whitby."

Dracula's smile is wicked and wide. "Ah. In that case, perhaps you'll allow _me_ the honor." Then, turning to Jonathan: "I've always wanted to do this. Haven't you?"

The vast experience held within Sokolov's blood, as well as that of the crew, gives Dracula and Jonathan enough knowhow to slowly, laboriously, steer the _Demeter_ into port.

Before they take their leave, Dracula hoists Sokolov's body up and ties it to the helm.

"They'll tell stories about this voyage for years to come," he says, patting the ship's log which peeks from the man's jacket pocket. Then he extends his hand to Jonathan. "Welcome home, Johnny."

The night is very dark, but Johnathan can already make out figures on the far dock. An alarm bell begins to sound, and a veil of fine, steady rain trickles down Jonathan's brow, tracing his features. Dampens his cheeks. Gathers between his lips.

The flavor is at once familiar and incomprehensible.

Suddenly, he begins to laugh. His body shakes with it, tremoring, shuddering, and it's all he can do to wrap his arms around himself—lest he be thrown apart.

Such is his relief.

Such is his fever-bright _anticipation_.


	2. The Abbey

By the time Dracula and Jonathan make their ascent to the ruined abbey, dawn is less than an hour away. Jonathan stares up at the massive stone structure, still grand despite its decrepitude, and feels vast, his senses positively _alight_ with the closeness of the sea and the star-swathed sky and the fresh, briny air—and purposeful.

Full of his lord's purpose.

But the thought of setting foot on that consecrated ground gives him pause. There's something _off_ about its scent. Stale. Sepulchral, like the crypts beneath Castle Dracula.

"Quite like that, in fact," Dracula offers, his mouth stretching into a grin. Jonathan is startled by the intrusion. But it's also comforting. He's growing used to Dracula's thoughts skimming through his own, plucking ideas from his mindscape like fruit from a vine; and planting them too: he's suddenly aware of the multitude of humans who over many hundreds of years were put to ground in the cliffside and beyond—

And those who weren't buried. Those lost in combat, or the deep waters off the coast.

And those who remain. Revenants. Dead and buried but far from restful.

Jonathan tries – and fails – to suppress his shudder.

Dracula clasps his shoulder. "Chin up, Johnny. You'll get used to it."

"Wh—What do you mean?"

By way of reply, Dracula leads Jonathan deep into the abbey. Most of the ruins are exposed, the floors long since having been overtaken by grassy verge. But here and there are clumps of tumbled down walls, piles of rock and dirt.

Places where a body might hide.

Dracula leans in to whisper, "Let me let you in on a little secret: the deeper you go, the better it is." Then he pushes Jonathan to his knees, and Jonathan is at once overcome by the dark, rich aroma of earth. He digs his hands into it. Works it between his fingers. Brings it up to his mouth and inhales.

"Yes," Dracula says. "That's it." He watches Jonathan fondly, letting him revel in the soporific alure of his own native soil, before drawing his cloak about him. "Remember, my dear: _very deep_. I'd so hate to find a pile of ash in your stead when I come to fetch you."

Jonathan jolts about. "You aren't staying?" he asks, acutely aware of the tremor of desperation in his voice. And then, catching Dracula's look: "As you say, my lord."

"There's a good lad." Dracula leans forward to draw Jonathan into a kiss. "What a lovely little town this is. I'm certain it will be no trouble at all to secure us some more appropriate lodgings."

With that, he fades into the paling light.

If Jonathan hesitates before beginning to dig – before burying himself – it's only for a moment. The pull of the earth is so incredibly strong—

And then—

Gone is the growing dawn and the ruined abbey. Gone are the myriad crawling and burrowing and chittering creatures of those loamy depths. Gone are the dead, both asleep and awake.


	3. Whitby

Jonathan scents the old man before he sees him, folded in on himself on a stone bench in the dusky churchyard, overlooking the water. His footfalls needn't make a sound, now—not unless he wants them to. Yet he suspects this, for once, is of little consequence, so deep is the man's dozing.

Dreaming.

And Jonathan is _hungry_.

It's all he can do to stop himself from rushing in and pummeling the man on the spot, dropping him to the ground and draining him without pause for care or decorum.

But then, there's no reason to end such a long life in pain save pain itself. And then, Dracula has also taught him how to be gentle. In one swift movement, Jonathan sweeps in from behind, takes the man by the shoulder, and thumbs his collar back to expose his grizzled, greyish throat. Then he bites.

There's no time for the man to react: Jonathan pulls him – Patrick Swales, he learns, has called Whitby home for most of his hundred years – back beneath the shroud of remembrance and begins to drink him down—

"God, Johnny," his lord croons, "you're beautiful."

Jonathan jolts to attention, staring up into Dracula's pale, leering face. He knows his own features are wet with blood. Sticky with it. But there's no shame. A frisson of pleasure jolts through him as Dracula leans in to lick at his chin, his cheeks, before he snakes his tongue into Jonathan's mouth. He moans, leaning into it.

And he realizes he's snapped the man's neck. Shocked, unable to stop himself, he drops the body and staggers backward several steps. "I—I wanted—"

Dracula holds up a hand, silencing him. "Of course you did. As well you should: it's your very birthright," he says. "Besides, it's best you sate yourself now. Wouldn't you know, our dearly departed Captain Sokolov is the talk of Whitby! The town's in a veritable tizzy, as it were—I don't need you getting agitated."

And it's true: despite the hour, the streets are bustling with all manner of people, excitement, and heat; it's visceral, overwhelmingly sanguine – too close, far too close – in a way Jonathan hadn't experienced in the sleepy villages they'd used as hunting grounds in Transylvania.

But Dracula is the picture of deliberate care. Taking Jonathan's arm, he leads him to their hotel, and it's only then, in the warmly lit, leather-scented lobby that Jonathan realizes he's been to Whitby before. He's been _here_. But when, and with whom?

 _Hair_ , he thinks, quite out of nowhere, _like spun gold_.

"Johnny? Stay with me, there's a good boy."

The sound of Dracula's voice breaks Jonathan from his reverie. He watches his lord shut the door to their suite and pocket the key before motioning to the desk where several legal folios, a neat black ledger, and a railway guide are splayed out beside a couple of expensive-looking pens.

At once, Jonathan feels at home. Comfortable. Needed.

He takes a seat and gets to work.


	4. En Route

Johnathan has never traveled first-class before.

An orphan before age ten, he's grown used to getting by. Making do with what to many would seem like little. And above all, working bloody hard.

It was because of this that old Mr. Hawkins noticed Jonathan—took such a liking to him that he became something of a surrogate son, hinting that Jonathan might even assume Hawkins' stake in the firm when the time came.

Yet Hawkins was austere, unwilling to spend on what he deemed frivolity. Which was most everything, including Jonathan's board and fare to Transylvania. Not that Jonathan minded. It was an honor to take on such an important role.

Only to have Dracula teach him _just_ how important he truly was.

But Jonathan is admittedly shocked by his lord's willingness to part with his wealth – though perhaps it is indeed limitless: Jonathan's seen the horde of riches hidden in the castle's depths – on niceties, or things which ensure their comfort.

Then again, as they're shown to their luxurious private compartment on the Whitby to Waterloo train, Jonathan thinks there's perhaps something more to it.

They can pass for human. They can bend minds at will.

And with the proper application of coinage, even their most eccentric demands are met with deference rather than derision. "I'll see you're left undisturbed." The conductor almost bows as he backsteps into the corridor. "Have a pleasant trip, sirs."

Dracula bolts the door. Then he turns, and the gleam in his eyes sends an anticipatory shiver down Jonathan's spine: a scant few hours is all that now separates them from reaching London—and setting their plans in motion.

They get comfortable, undressing to their shirtsleeves and loosening their ties; chatting over a sheaf of papers; slipping into companionable silence.

As ever, Jonathan is aware of Dracula's presence. The alignment of Dracula's thigh against his own. The cool weight of his hands when he draws Jonathan to him so that they're chest-to-chest, face-to-face, and Dracula's tongue is sliding into Jonathan's hungry mouth.

Dracula plucks handily at Jonathan's trousers, getting them down and off, and then working at his entrance with a slicked finger. Then another.

Before Jonathan can stop himself, lost in his lord's attentions, he lets out a moan. His eyes shoot open. He daren't risk exposure—

Dracula grins. "Don't hold back, Johnny."

And what can Jonathan do but obey?

The position should be awkward, perched as he is on Dracula's lap. But they've done this so many times. He adjusts nimbly when Dracula undoes his own flies, releases his cock, and pulls Jonathan down on himself.

Jonathan gasps. But the pain is expected—and soon replaced with exquisite curls of pleasure as he rides him. As he rocks, and follows his lord's urgings, and is pulled into a kiss in which they both manage to draw blood.

The train rolls on. Jonathan is vast, at once more and less than the sum of his parts.

And Dracula's hold is so very strong.


	5. Carfax

It's home.

And it's more beautiful than Jonathan could have ever dreamed.

Of course, he'd read the descriptions. He'd seen photographs of the exterior. He'd all but memorized the floorplans while en route to Transylvania – the voyage by steamer, train, and carriage which, as fate would have it, would amount to the final days of his mortal existence – wanting to be informed and at ease while conducting the Count’s real estate transaction on behalf of his firm.

In the silvery moonlight, the broad exterior of Carfax Abbey looks like some great, looming beast. A place which evolved over the course of the centuries, structure built upon structure, level stacked upon level; a desolate history which reaches all the way back to the ancient keep. Here and there, stone gives way to glass, stretching windows and what looks to be a greenhouse or solarium. Would it were Jonathan might observe the place by daylight—

But then again, no. There's no room for such absurd notions, not when Dracula is working the key in the lock and Jonathan's anticipation builds, fever bright and lovely, and he is – madly, quite out of the blue – taken by the idea that his lord might lift him into his arms and carry him over the threshold like a bride in truth.

Dracula tuns then, his features curling in a curious expression. "Oh, Johnny," he says, perhaps holding back laughter, "you never fail to amaze."

And without warning, Jonathan is swept off his feet.

He sighs happily and leans into Dracula's chest, breathing in his scent, luxuriating in his closeness, as he carries him through the huge door and into the hall where two staircases curve together into an expansive central foyer. It's dark. But with his fine-tuned vision, it's easy to make out the dust and dirt and myriad cobwebs: the place has sat empty for most of Jonathan's life, derelict or dormant, as if waiting for the right owner—

Waiting for them. For so too Dracula has been clear in assuring Jonathan that this is to be neither his nor Jonathan's home, but truly _theirs_ together. 

Dracula's boxes of earth have preceded their arrival, the lot of them having been deposited at the rear of the property. But presently he and Jonathan carry one into the old chapel, and he encourages him to add in some of his own native English soil.

"We can perfect the combination another night," Dracula says. "But this should suffice for now."

"Yes," Jonathan says. Dracula is watching him again, so closely, and it's all he can do to not fall at his feet—or drop to his knees. The thought of once more sharing Dracula's bed fills him toe to tip with excited, anticipatory arousal. But he's determined to control himself, and so says, gratefully, "Thank you, my lord."

When dawn approaches and Dracula shuts the lid over their heads, he whispers into Jonathan's ear, "You're doing so well. But make no mistake: my bidding has only just begun."


	6. Mayfair

Dracula tuts and shakes his head when he discovers that Jonathan has killed their tailor.

"Johnny, Johnny," he says, "now who's going to finish sewing your splendid suit?"

Jonathan shudders, his tongue darting out over his lips to collect the last of the man's blood. It's embarrassing. Certainly, it is. But he feels sated, so satisfied and comfortable in his oft-overeager skin that it's difficult to feel quite _sorry_ for what he's done. Besides, he was careful to hypnotize the fellow – per Dracula's will, he's been practicing offering this act of mercy to his victims – before sinking his fangs into him, drawing him beneath the velvet shroud of dreaming so that he felt no pain.

He just couldn't _help_ himself after he caught the scent of the tailor's blood, blooming red on his crooked old fingertip, accidentally pricked by a pin.

He'd also managed to not spill a single drop.

But to Dracula's point, they'd gone to rather a lot of trouble to arrange for a private fitting. After dark, off the books, with any and all mirrors covered or tucked away: for enough coinage, no request was too unusual for even the most renowned bespoke clothiers of Savile Row.

Dracula unfolds his arms from his chest and runs his hands over Jonathan's shoulders, straightening the halfway stitched seams. "You do look a treat," he admits, indulgently. Then he leans in for a kiss. His tongue skirts into Jonathan's waiting mouth to sample what's left of the man's blood. "Quite brilliant with a needle and thread, that one. More's the pity we'll have to start over at another shop."

Jonathan smiles, enjoying the attention. "Not necessarily," he says. Then, catching his lord's eye: "His life is mine. The jacket's almost done. The waistcoat as well. I think I might be able to pick up where he left off."

Dracula can't help but laugh at this. "Oh, Johnny. You really needn't—"

"I don't mind," Jonathan promises. "It'll be nice to have something to keep busy with while we continue to get our affairs in order."

"Ah. Am I not keeping you sufficiently entertained?"

If Jonathan could still blush, he would—so alluring is the look in Dracula's eyes, so dark the deepening timbre of his voice. But he presses on, "Perhaps... if I may be so bold, my lord: perhaps you'd allow me to complete yours as well."

The thought of being the one to adorn Dracula, to outfit his powerful body in fine wool and cotton and silk, all the better to make his debut in English society, fills Jonathan with a tingling sort of anticipation. A reverent longing. A fierce, driving _hunger_.

Dracula sighs. "All right, Johnny," he says, shrugging out of his own beautifully conceived jacket. "As you wish."

Together, they ransack the tailor's workbench. They pack up their suits, the fabric and thread and notions. They leave payment on the desk and the tailor's bloodless body on the floor. And they retreat into the cold, smoke-scented night.


	7. West End

Dracula's bloodlust is surpassed only by his appetite for discovery.

With a keen, curious mind, he dedicates himself to mastering this modern world Jonathan has delivered him into, and Jonathan exults in this, never having had the means nor the time to explore in such a fashion while mortal.

Nightly, he proposes fresh revelries to enjoy. They make their way through myriad exhibitions and demonstrations and museums. They speak to – and dine on – some of the most renowned intellectuals in the city.

They spend an entire evening riding the underground, station to station, hand in hand, Dracula fixed in a state of delighted fascination that Jonathan has never before glimpsed in him.

And tonight, they shall behold the Lumière brothers' magnificent Cinématographe, a device, Jonathan happily describes upon reading of it in the _Times_ , which displays _moving pictures_.

Oh, he should like nothing more than to introduce his lord to such a wondrous feat of innovation, to say nothing of witnessing it himself. And they aren't alone. The pavement outside the theatre is bustling, the crowd bristling with excitement.

Jonathan's guts churn as he scents them.

But then he glimpses a set of portraits in a nearby shop window and struggles to stifle the wave of longing that hits him, for this too is his heart's desire: to look upon Dracula when they're parted, to hold his visage close. To prove to himself, in moments of doubt or confusion, that the beast in him is no mere matter of delusion, nor a penny dreadful which swallowed him whole—but something _true_.

In an instant, Dracula gleans the thought from Jonathan's mind. "Oh, Johnny," he chuckles, "what's truer than blood?"

Jonathan sucks in a breath and stammers, "Y–yes, my lord. Of course."

Dracula raises a gloved hand to Jonathan's chin, forcing him to meet his eye. "You realize I didn't say 'no.'"

To Jonathan's relief, Dracula takes care of everything. The photographer guides them into a modest studio, a carved teak chair set before a simple background, and Jonathan reaches forward – but no, Dracula hasn't a hair out of place – only for Dracula to turn him round and pull him onto his lap, his hand a comforting weight on Jonathan's shoulder before it drops and his long, cool fingers thread though Jonathan's own.

The photographer, unperturbed, bids them to look ahead.

A frisson of pleasure skirts up Jonathan's spine when Dracula whispers in his ear—

And: _click_.

Jonathan's hands shake when, a week later, he opens the slender folio containing the print.

"Well?" Dracula asks, brow arched.

"Oh _yes_ ," Jonathan says, eyes skirting over the amber hues. At Dracula, devastatingly regal, bright and beautiful as ever. His guiding star. His lord.

And then at himself, scarcely glimpsed in months, pale as some ghoul from a fairy story but for his determined posture. His gleaming eyes. His lips which part to reveal the sharp, white blade of his grin.

A low laugh bubbles out of him now—unbidden, but not unwelcome.


	8. Piccadilly

The house is nowhere near as grand as Carfax.

It isn't _home_.

But it's replete with all the latest conveniences, bedecked with fineries and fripperies, art and artefacts, so that each room creates a gallery of sorts and no wall is free of gilt and rich fabrics, from the polished marble floors up to the high, gaslit ceilings.

It also affords a lovely view of the Green Park – Jonathan presently adjusts his focus in his dressing room window from his own apparitional reflection out to the old oaks and elms flanking the winter-muted lawn – not to mention the location: when his lord bid that he secure a residence in the city proper, he was quite adamant on this point, of all things.

That they should in the subsequent weeks come to so easily set up shop not a stone's throw from the forecourt of Buckingham Palace feels only natural.

Such is Dracula's power.

Indeed, he has inserted himself into this place as if he was born to it—and none have dared question his purpose, least of all the servants hired on with the property, more than thirty in total, who succumb to the allure of coinage – and hypnosis – without comment or complaint.

It's little more than a stage, of course. A set upon which Dracula will charm and court and set his fangs into the tender throat of London society.

And so in less than an hour's time, a host of peerage and nobility, diplomats and politicians, artists and intellectuals will arrive for the Count's debut ball.

Jonathan meets him downstairs, explaining, "Everything is in order, my lord. The quartet is setting up now and Cook assures me there will be enough food for seventy-five, should we need it."

The rich aroma of cheese and pastry and fruit and roasting meat tickles Jonathan's nose even now, and though it upsets his delicate senses, he knows that it too is a necessary evil.

One cannot attract flies without honey.

"Wonderful, Johnny. You've really thought of everything." With a flourish, Dracula takes Jonathan's hand in his own, ghosting his lips over Jonathan's knuckles. Then he pulls a box from his pocket and presses it into Jonathan's palm.

Jonathan gapes down at it. "My lord?"

"Open it."

Jonathan does. Inside, nested in black velvet, is a brooch set with the largest sapphire he's ever seen. "Oh," he says, "I couldn't possibly—"

"Nonsense," Dracula laughs and nimbly pins it into the ivory silk knotted round Jonathan's neck. "A man has every right to spoil his bride. Besides: we've an impression to make tonight." Then he lifts his hand to cradle Jonathan's cheek, runs his claws down his jaw, angles him, holds him still and captures his mouth in a hot, exploratory kiss.

Jonathan moans into it. Savors Dracula's flavor. For it's not long before he pulls back, grinning as he adjusts the great, gold-framed ruby which hangs at his own throat. "Now then. I don't know about you, Johnny, but I'm positively _famished_."


	9. Pall Mall

Jonathan has been patient.

He has been discreet.

He has, to a fault, been _meticulous_ in carrying out Dracula's bidding—has killed – or collected, as was the case for several of these unfortunate souls who, like a housecat with a songbird, he triumphantly deposited at his lord's feet – each name on that well-thumbed list.

Of course, some have been known to him. Those he met at the ball. Those he's read of in the papers. Those Dracula has described. But too, some seem so random that it takes all his strength of will to keep from questioning their relation to Dracula's plans; instead, as always, assuring himself that said plans needn't be questioned.

Thus, Jonathan will be rewarded.

When he wakes tonight to hear Dracula rumble, "Come, my dear. The whole of London awaits. Let us paint it red," he should perhaps realize how literally it's meant: together, they proceed to tear their way through the Diogenes, a particularly exclusive gentleman's club Dracula's had his eye on, but heretofore received no invitation to enter.

They gorge themselves – and then some; the place is packed for the supper rush – and it's beautiful, brutal, purely indulgent by now, for surely even Dracula must feel sated.

Hell, but Jonathan's never seen so much gore. There's as much of it splattered on the floor, the walls – the _ceiling_ , somehow – as has likely wound up in their bellies, and he doesn't need a mirror to know that he too must look a fright.

But Dracula smiles to see him thus. He takes Jonathan in his arms and begins to rip his ruined clothing away, and it's somehow like taking his truest form; like being reborn.

They fall to the ground together, Dracula's hands on Jonathan's hips, and oh, Jonathan needn't fuss overly in working himself open: there's blood coating nearly every inch of his skin—and Dracula's too. In one fluid movement, he reaches round to take Dracula's cock in hand and guides him inside, gasping, giddy to feel that familiar stretch.

And as Dracula begins to rock into him, setting their rhythm, Jonathan thinks he should like nothing more than to merge with him here and now, fully and deeply, so that they might become a singular being; a creature horrific and resplendent in equal measure.

If he could but descend into his lord's labyrinthine corridors with no hope of escape—

He would.

He would.

He would, as Dracula pulls him into a deep, sharp kiss.

Later, when they've recomposed themselves – after they make use of the rather splendid washroom and Dracula smooths the wrinkles from his own largely unblemished suit, he helps Jonathan salvage a set of clothes from among their victims – Dracula presses a neat white card into Jonathan's hands. "Another treat for you," he says, "since you've been such a very good boy."

Jonathan frowns, struggling to decipher the single name scrawled across it: _Wilhelmina Murray_. Then: "Who is she?"

"Oh, Johnny. Surely you don't wish me to spoil the surprise."

**Author's Note:**

> A note on Chapter 6: Props where they're due: the idea of Johnny killing the tailor was inspired by the scene in _Interview with the Vampire_ (definitely the movie, though possibly also the book... it's been a long time since I read it) where Claudia kills her dressmaker. TVC was actually my first online fandom - and my first taste of fandom drama when Anne Rice started siccing lawyers on transformative creators, demolishing the really robust fan community that had sprung up around her works. Fun times!
> 
> Say hello @ [argyleheir.tumblr.com](https://argyleheir.tumblr.com/)


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